Second Nature
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: John knows; it's strange, in the quiet and stillness how he can nearly feel all of the pieces shift into place. It's a bloody brilliant sensation.


Previously posted at livejournal.

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><p>The bottle of Scotch is expensive; John knows the brand, reads the label, nearly chokes at the implication of the price. Top shelf, aged older than he is. Aged older than the both of them combined.<p>

Christ.

"Sherlock..."

He pulls straight from the bottle, though he has a perfectly good tumbler perched on the table. Sherlock's face is a mask of stoic indifference, even as John imagines the sting of the alcohol down his throat. John envisions drinking it himself and cringes, _cringes_. Nearly vomits (it's never as masculine and effortless as they make it appear in the films.)

"Yes." Not a question, a statement. He doesn't bother glancing over at his flatmate, doesn't really bother moving at all. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a rumpled Oxford, Sherlock sits barefoot and blank. Barefoot and blank and half-dressed for bed though still wearing his long overcoat.

John wants to call him on it, wishes desperately to tell him he's forgotten to undress completely, that he looks _utterly__ridiculous_ but holds his tongue. It's too much in his nature; he needs to learn to wait, wait to deduce, wait until Sherlock _gives__him__something__to__go__on_.

John focuses...

Tousled hair, unwashed and on-end, days since he's had a shower when yesterday should have been the day he indulged; tin of biscuits picked at, not eaten, why picked at at all?; mobile in his breast pocket and not in his hand; shoes off, not on. Off kilter, completely off kilter. Not on a case, surely, or he would be seated with research, his laptop, would _have__his__shoes__on_, ready to go at any given moment.

John knows; it's strange, in the quiet and stillness how he can nearly feel all of the pieces shift into place. It's a bloody brilliant sensation.

_John__knows_. He's not sure how, not sure how it's come to him intrinsically, without any sort of real effort or thought. He's come to know his flatmate's actions and idiosyncrasies as easily as his flatmate is able to tell just _when_John last bought a latte in wake of his usual morning tea. It's almost as though it's become... second nature.

It shakes him, really, that he's able to _know_all of this, that he doesn't have to struggle to add it all up. Still, startling and... comforting. To know someone that intimately without even meaning to, what a happy accident.

John tiptoes forward a bit, ducks down into Sherlock's line of sight and makes a swipe for the bottle, misses just as Sherlock snatches it up. He gulps once, twice, his right eye twitches but he makes no other outward sign that he's drinking something acrid, not bothering to actually taste it. John thinks about perhaps commenting that a cheap bottle would have done the same trick but refrains.

Sherlock is in a right state.

He stands before his intoxicated (must be, if a quarter of the bottle is gone) friend and folds his hands together. "You're sad," Sherlock may be the master investigator, but he knows this man and he knows the human condition, understands emotions.

But that doesn't make sense, because Sherlock doesn't sympathize, doesn't empathize, doesn't feel much at all most of the time. John can tell from the evidence, however, that he's feeling... sad.

No, that's can't be. Can't be...

John can't fathom, however, that this particular conclusion that he's drawn is the emotion Sherlock is experiencing. The detective is not prone to reactions of this sort. Not outwardly, not often, not that John can really recall. Regret, anger, anguish, angst, giddiness, surely.

"I'm not sad, I'm... I'm... confused." Sherlock runs his fingers thought his hair, grips his hair and pulls. Not hard enough, nothing comes out. "I'm nothing."

John takes off his coat and hangs it up on the back of the door, settles himself in a chair by the dying fire, stares into the kitchen and is silent for a time. His gaze alternates between the crackling wood and Sherlock, who stares at the ceiling and pull, pull, pulls at the scotch.

"I doubt your being upset about all of this will help him to... recover?" It's an awful thing to say, it's without compassion, it's downright cruel. Save for the fact that it's just what Sherlock needs to hear. And he's onto him, now, completely and utterly onto him and there's such a high from that, such a rush knowing that he's _understood_something.

Sherlock scowls at him, brings the bottle to his lips and then halts, "No."

John's lips are a thin line as he tilts his head, nods, waits for Sherlock to catch up.

"No," his eyes flicker, as though, shock, as though something previously unknown has come to him. His fingers flutter against the neck of the bottle as he considers, thinks, tries to rationalize away feelings. "No, no," and yet he takes a deliberate swallow anyway.

John sighs, rolls his eyes, knows just what to say and doesn't say it. There's no point in showing his hand to a man who's known the hand from the beginning. It's infuriating and in a way quite... nice.

"You care. About Lestrade."

"Of course," Sherlock says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I care. It is, after all, entirely my doing. Truly... this time around."

"Alright, that's... that's fine." John explains and stands from the chair, missing the warmth of the still-dying flames. "That's really quite... it's a flesh wound." He nearly bites the last bit, feels like he's been keeping it, though he hasn't. Not really.

Someone has to have told Sherlock _by__now_. As John thinks it, he hears the mechanical buzz of a cell phone, notices the muted light coming from Sherlock's breast pocket. Someone telling him now, perhaps.

Dripping with sarcasm, "Oh is it, is it? And you know-"

Before the 'or how-' snaps at him, before he's able to shout it, John speaks in a low, calm tremor. "I am a doctor, you'll remember. I did _examine_the man."

The response is a fraction of a second too late, "Hmm."

"Oh dear Christ, you honestly didn't remember that I _am__a__doctor_." John's eyes finally meet his and they hold for the briefest of moments before John leans forward and pries the bottle from Sherlock's hand.

"That is mine," he says from the couch, though makes no move to retrieve the Scotch.

"Assuming this is from the fee we received for the Griffin case we'll call this a share, shall we?" John swigs from the bottle and cringes heartily, the wrinkles in his face meeting his hairline as he makes every attempt not to spit out the alcohol.

"Yes, let's," Sherlock holds out his hand and when he has the bottle back, his vision blurs from John's for a moment. "This is... this is interesting, don't you think?"

"No," John responds and motions with his hand for Sherlock to bring the bottle forth.

"No?"

"Emotional strife," John takes another swallow and sucks in, cool air chasing down the awful burn. "Perfect sense, getting completely-"

"And you're indulging as well."

John smiles in spite of himself, grateful Sherlock is not watching. "Course."

"Of course."

"Yes." He hands the bottle back across the room and Sherlock takes it easily, passes it between his hands. Left, right, left, right, "John."

John bites his lip. "Hm?"

"Flesh wound."

"Yes."

"Well. Perhaps the top shelf wasn't required," Sherlock holds the bottle to the light, glances through the amber liquid and his visage is distorted.

John watches his face through the booze, as his eyes blur and morph. "Yes, well, no reason not to enjoy it, now that you know he's-"

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaims and pulls. Hands it over.

"We're getting drunk, then?" John shrugs off his coat and tosses it towards the other armchair.

Sherlock's brow perches, he glances at the bottle and then at John. "We are."


End file.
